


That Was The Day

by airspaniel



Category: BoJack Horseman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Meetings, Gen, Stand-Up Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 08:21:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2844383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airspaniel/pseuds/airspaniel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It had taken a lot of courage for me to get here, to my first real stand-up comedy gig. After years of thinking about it, how easy it would be, I finally managed to swallow that ball of nausea called nerves and show up to the open mic night at the Chuckle Sweatshop. The elite of the LA amateur stand-up comedy scene were there, waiting to hear what BoJack Horseman could bring to the table. To hear what I had to say, that was different than what anyone else had to say, that was my perspective on the world and where I, BoJack Horseman, fit into it. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>I was terrified.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Was The Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redstapler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redstapler/gifts).



> BoJack Horseman is an amazing show, capable of going from the grossest humor to the kind of deep pathos that Oscar-nominated dramas try and fail to achieve, often in the space of one episode. If BoJack and Herb and Charlotte can't have a happy ending, I wanted to try and at least give them a happy beginning. Title from the song of the same name by The The, off the soundtrack for the movie _Threesome_ , because I have poor impulse control.
> 
> Happy Yuletide, redstapler! I hope you like it! :D

It had taken a lot of courage for me to get here, to my first real stand-up comedy gig. After years of thinking about it, how easy it would be, I finally managed to swallow that ball of nausea called nerves and show up to the open mic night at the Chuckle Sweatshop. The elite of the LA amateur stand-up comedy scene were there, waiting to hear what BoJack Horseman could bring to the table. To hear what I had to say, that was different than what anyone else had to say, that was my perspective on the world and where I, BoJack Horseman, fit into it. I was terrified.

Then suddenly, I heard the voice of an angel.

“Wow, you're sweating an awful lot. Here, have a cold one and just chill out a little.”

I turned around and saw that the face matched the voice: a muzzle soft as silk, dappled with white freckles as playful as dew on the morning flowers, hazel-brown eyes that were full of kindness. In her hand, she held out a Seagram's Golden wine cooler, as endorsed by Bruce Willis, because it was 1986.

“Oh,” I said, intelligently. “No, oh, I'm sorry, I can't drink. I'm performing later,” I explained, “and I have to keep my wits about me.”

“I totally get it,” the angel said, taking a swig from the wine cooler, herself. My eyes were drawn inexorably to the motion of her throat as she swallowed, and I was hypnotized. “You've gotta be on your A-game up there. Who knows, the audience could be full of network execs looking for the next big thing.”

The idea splashed over me like cold water. “Oh shit. Really?”

She laughed at me, and even her derision sounded like music. “No, I'm just fucking with you. There's no one out there tonight but losers and chumps. Uh... no offense.”

“None taken,” I said, because I didn't entirely understand what she meant by that, but didn't want to let on.

She laughed again as the lights began to dim, and I knew I'd said something right. “Here, have a club soda,” she said, passing a glass to me over the bar. “Just relax. Herb's about to start the show.”

I didn't know who Herb was, or why I should care. “What's your name?” I asked, drawn into confidence by the darkened room.

“Charlotte,” she whispered. “Now shut up, it's starting.”

A short, round-ish man had taken the stage, and I do mean _taken._ There was no question that he owned it. His personality and presence were bigger than his body.

“Hello, Los Angeles!” he called into the mic, “I'm Herb Kazzaz, and welcome to tonight's Kazzaz-trophe! We've got a lot of fine talent here, and also a lot of idiots who have no idea what they're doing.” 

I didn't want to admit that I was probably one of those idiots. 

Herb looked at his clipboard and introduced the first comic, and then the next, and then the next, the faces blurring together, the jokes a meaningless slur of words. It's possible I was freaking out. Okay, I was totally freaking out.

Something cold and wet touched my wrist, and I looked up to see Charlotte setting a fresh glass of seltzer in front of me. “Hey,” she said, leaning in. “Calm down. You're gonna be great up there.”

“You don't even know me,” I muttered, mostly to myself. I wasn't even sure that she heard me, until I felt her hand on my arm.

“I have faith,” she said, giving a friendly squeeze before moving back down the bar to serve another group of patrons. And that was it. I was in love. The room came back into focus, and I turned back to the stage just in time to hear Herb say my name.

“BoJack Horseman, come on down! You're the next victim of the Kazzaz-trophe.”

I don't remember getting to the stage, but suddenly there I was. The microphone was damp in my hand, clammy with the sweat of the last poor sap who sacrificed himself to the comedy gods. I tightened my fingers around it, determined not to let it slip away.

“So how's everybody doing tonight?” No response. “I mean, I was doing great until I stepped up to the bar earlier. Has this ever happened to you? So I walk up to the bartender and she says 'Why the long face?' and I said, 'Well, miss, I'm a horse.'

The house was obstinately silent except for one soft chuckle from the back. I couldn't see Charlotte, but her laugh was already familiar. I was bombing, and I didn't even care.

“But seriously, folks...” The rest of my set passed in the blink of an eye. An extremely awkward, prolonged blink of a very uncomfortable eye. I didn't get any laughs, but no one threw a bottle at my head, so I called it a wash. Even so, I was starting to think that comedy wasn't for me. Maybe it wasn't too late to go to medical school.

Maybe I should just crawl into a bottle of Jim Beam and die in obscurity, just like my father always said I would.

“Goddamn, kid, that _is_ a long face. I know you died up there, but this isn't a funeral.”

I wheeled around. “Hey, asshole, I didn't ask for your feedback.” Herb Kazzaz just stared at me, a little smile on his lips that looked kind of like a challenge, and kind of like he was checking me out, even though that made no sense. I could feel my face flush for some entirely heterosexual reason.

“I know,” he said, lifting his Michelob Light in a toast, “but I thought I'd give you some friendly advice. You were fucking terrible up there. I've had funnier prostate exams.”

“This is friendly advice?”

He shook his head. “No, that's the frank assessment. The advice part comes later, if you want it.”

I sighed. Sure, it would be great to get the opinion of a real comedy professional, but my self-esteem was in the toilet. Might as well flush. “I don't know, I just... I don't think the audience got my material.”

Herb snorted. “Yeah, that's the problem. Those jokes that were already old when Ben Franklin was born were just too _high-concept_ for the room. That's exactly what happened.”

“You think? I _knew_ I should've asked if they got it. How am I going to know if they understand my jokes if I don't ask?” It seemed so obvious now.

“Jesus christ...” Herb said, draining his beer. It was great that he agreed with me. Maybe I could hack it after all.

The overhead lights turned on, and Charlotte came around the bar, purse slung over her shoulder. “Ready to go, babe?”

For one brilliant, beautiful second, I thought she was talking to me. Then Herb reached past me to take her hand and pull her in for a quick kiss. “Whenever you are, sweetie,” he said. “Just paying my respects to this man's dearly departed comedy career.”

“Be nice,” Charlotte said, swatting his arm. “I like this guy.”

Herb laughed. “I always knew you had terrible taste.”

“Clearly,” she said, kissing his cheek. This was more depressing than the shop talk had been.

“Well, not that I don't want to sit around all night being insulted and watching you two do your happy couple thing...” I said, standing up to leave. “But I should probably pay up and go on with my shitty life.”

“That's the spirit, kid,” Herb said. 

Charlotte shook her head and curled her fingers around mine, pushing the crumpled wad of bills back into my hand. “Please. You had two sodas. You can make it up to me next time.” Her hand was so soft and so warm, and I didn't want her to let go.

Next time. She was very confident that there would be a next time, and in that moment, so was I. I nodded, and put my hand back in my pocket. Herb clapped me on the shoulder and left his hand there.

“So we'll see you next week, right, BoJack?” He remembered my name. I don't know why that made me blush again, but I chose not to think about it too hard. “Bring in some new material. Maybe something from the Eisenhower administration.”

“Oh, I'll be here,” I said, and I knew it was true. “And I'll have a set so good it'll knock your socks off. I'll show you that I'm not just horsing around.”

“'Horsin' around,'” Herb chuckled. “That's a good one.” I had no idea what he was talking about.

“Goodnight, BoJack,” Charlotte said. “We'll see you soon.”

And they did. For the next eight years, we did everything together. Well, not _everything_ everything, I mean, not the sex stuff. Except for that one time. And that other time. And the thing at Reginald VelJohnson's New Years Eve party that we never spoke of again.

We were best friends. There wasn't anything we couldn't do.

I always knew it was too good to last.


End file.
